


Consciousness

by Gallifrey_Immigrant



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 08:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12678054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallifrey_Immigrant/pseuds/Gallifrey_Immigrant
Summary: How does one know who they are?





	Consciousness

A lone guitar riff echoes through the TARDIS. A Time Lord, dressed as a Scottish human male, wrapped in a hoodie, rocks out on the dance floor he calls his TARDIS. In front of him is a young woman called Bill. She's wearing a stylish black shirt, with a rainbow-ish pattern . That'll be important later.

He starts to say, “Remember how I said that Time Lords have a continuous consciousness?”

“You never said that,” says Bill. She's raising her eyebrow, because she knows that he probably knows he never said that. 

“I didn't? Good. That would have been a lie,” he says. He drums out a few more notes on the guitar, as if he's in tune with a private band. His eyes suddenly open, and he focuses on Bill, and then grins.

“So, then, when are you going to ask the obvious question?”

“Which is?” says Bill, with a smirk on her face. 

The Doctor does a small riff, then says “If Time Lords know that they aren't one consciousness, how do I know I'm me?”

“You know who you are by your friends and enemies,” calls out Nardole from another room. He's working with some technology or other. 

“But my only friends are you guys, and my flatmates. Don't have any enemies,” says Bill. 

“Good for you. I have enemies of just about every planet. Except for Pluto,” calls out Nardole. 

“Pluto isn't a planet,” says Bill.

Nardole groans out loud, and then screams in agony. Bill looks out at his direction, but the Doctor waves her away.

“He sounds hurt,” says Bill.

“I'm sure he's fine. Probably just spilt some tea on his hands. Nardole, you're fine, right?”

No response. 

The Doctor frowns. Sighing, he places his guitar down on the floor. He strolls down the hallway in the direction of Nardole's room. Bill follows him closely. They follow the winding paths of the TARDIS hallways. She's scared, but is trying not to show it. 

“So, Bill. How do you know you're you?” 

The Doctor's Scottish voice runs through her brain. The hallway is getting darker, to the point where she can barely see in front of her. She should have been at Nardole's room by now.

“Well, I know I like sci-fi movies. Terminator, all that jazz. I like girls. I miss my mum. I served chips,” says Bill.

“And if all that was stripped away? What if you woke up, and you liked boys. Or liked no one. What if you were lousy at serving chips? What if you no longer thought of your mom?”

She thinks. All she hears is footsteps.

“Maybe I wouldn't be me, then,” said Bill.

The Doctor stops, and slowly turns. She can only tell he's moved, from the sounds of his breath. 

“Indeed. And yet, I've never been anyone but myself.”

They turn the corner. Nardole is there, nursing a bad burn. 

“Just met myself ten years into the future. I hugged him. Caused a bad burn.”

Bill scratches herself, realizes she's wearing a different shirt. The Doctor notices, but he's checking the console before he reacts. Then he says:

“A version of us from ten years later just met each of us. We don't remember, because time distortion.”

“Why is my shirt different?”

“Maybe future-you took it. Maybe future-me took it.”

“Why would you need my shirt?”

“Maybe I needed to wear woman's clothing for a bit.”

Bill starts to say something, but then decides to not be so judgey. 

“So, that question about constant consciousness?”

“What question?”

“Doctor, you were asking me “how did I know “who am I?”” says Bill.

“It's true. I remember the conversation,” says Nardole.

“I don't,” says the Doctor. 

 

Bill wakes up to another rock song. Her room is dark, and she reaches for the light. A hand blocks her.

“Shhh...” says a Yorkshire accent. “I'm sure you're wondering--”

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?” screams Bill.

“Ow. Oww! Never knew you could scream like that. Listen, I'm the Doctor.”

Bill cuts on the light. The woman in front of her attempts to hide her face in a white hoodie. It looks ridiculous. And then she sees the woman's face, just for a second, before the woman cuts the light back off. 

“We're all different people, in the end. Us Time Lords just change regularly. I remember you, Bill. I remember being so Scottish, and so cross. And I remember caring for you, so much. I asked you, in the hallway, how I knew who I was.”

“No. That was the Doctor. The Scottish grump.”

“Funny what an image manipulator and preconceived notions can do,” says this Yorkshire Doctor. There was a cocky giggle in her voice.”

Bill hears shuffling, and then she can sense that this Doctor is closer now. She can feel the Doctor's hands on her shoulder. It feels comforting rather than creepy, weirdly enough.

“Bill, I've changed quite a bit. I've got different tastes in clothes. Different accent. Different hair. I forgot how it felt, to change,” says the Doctor softly.

“Why come to me about it? I've never changed like that.”

“Oh, you don't get it. You've never had to change that much. Meeting you reminds me of what's constant. I still care for you, and Nardole. That's my constant. Keeps me settled.”

The Doctor's face is clearer now, through the darkness. Bill can see the Doctor's grin stretching across her face.

“Sorry for stealing your shirt. I'll give it back, one day.”

 

Bill wakes up on the TARDIS floor. The Scottish Doctor is above her, drumming a tune.

“Was I just in my TARDIS room?” she asks.

“You have a room in my TARDIS? When? Why? Don't you have a flatroom on Earth to lounge in?” says the Doctor, his eyes in complete shock. 

“The room sort of popped up one day. I guess the TARDIS gave it to me?”

The Doctor glares at the console. Then, he turns around, and looks at Bill. “Did you dream?”

Bill thinks. “No.”

“You whispered my name in your sleep.”

“Well, maybe I was thinking of you.”

“Maybe.”

“Doctor, how do you know you're still you? Despite regeneration?”

“I don't try to think about it much. I suppose, who else could I be?”


End file.
